“The music took him one piece at a time… until there wasn’t enough left for us.” At 82, Temple Medley — Conway Twitty’s first and only wife — finally broke the silence she held for nearly six decades. She didn’t speak of the superstar the world adored, but of Harold — the man she loved before fame, before pressure, before the loneliness that success brought with it. When asked why their marriage ended, she didn’t blame betrayal. “It was distance,” she said quietly. “The music took him one piece at a time… until there wasn’t enough left for us.” Temple never remarried. “You only get one true love,” she confessed. “I already had mine.” Friends say she still keeps their wedding photo beside her bed — a reminder of the life they had before the world claimed him. For Conway’s fans, her words reveal the hidden cost of brilliance… and the lifelong devotion of the woman who loved the man long before he became a legend.

“Scroll down to the end of the article to listen to music.”

Introduction

After more than half a century of silence, Temple Medley — known to fans as Mickey Jenkins, the first and only wife of Conway Twitty — has finally spoken. Now 82 years old, the woman who once stood quietly beside one of country music’s greatest legends has revealed the deeply emotional truth behind their divorce, their enduring bond, and why she never remarried.

For decades, she avoided the spotlight. While Conway’s fame grew from rock ’n’ roll heartthrob to country icon, Mickey remained a mystery — a chapter rarely discussed, even by those closest to him. But in a new, quietly recorded interview shared by family friends, her voice carries the tone of both tenderness and time.

“I never stopped loving him,” she admits softly. “But sometimes love isn’t enough to survive the world that comes with it.”

The couple married young — long before “Hello Darlin’,” “It’s Only Make Believe,” or the stage lights of Nashville ever defined him. They raised four children together, built a family from scratch, and weathered the lean years when money was tight and dreams seemed far away. But as Conway’s career soared through the 1960s and ’70s, the distance between home and the road began to widen.

“I used to wait up for him,” she recalls. “Some nights, he came home so tired he couldn’t speak. Other nights, he couldn’t come home at all.”

By the late 1970s, the strain had taken its toll. Conway’s fame had turned him into a public figure of mythic proportions, while Mickey — devoted mother, steadfast partner — found herself fading into the background of his growing legend. Their divorce, finalized quietly and without spectacle, left her heartbroken but resolute.

“People always ask why I never remarried,” she says, pausing for a long breath. “Because once you’ve loved someone that deeply, you don’t start over. You just keep loving them differently.”

In her words, there’s no bitterness — only reflection. She speaks with grace about the man the world adored and the husband only she truly knew: gentle, conflicted, driven by music and haunted by loneliness.

“When he sang ‘I’d Love to Lay You Down,’ I knew that part of him still longed for home,” she confides. “But the stage became his home. And I had to let him go.”

Now, after all these years, Temple Medley’s voice offers the missing half of Conway Twitty’s story — the love that shaped him, the heartbreak that deepened his songs, and the quiet devotion that never really ended.

“He was my first everything,” she says in closing. “And in some ways, he still is.”

For the millions who grew up on his music, her words add a final verse to the song — not about fame or failure, but about the kind of love that outlasts both.

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Lyrics

Now I’m lying here with Linda on my mind
And next to me, my soon to be, the one I left behind
And Lord it’s killing me to see her crying
She knows I’m lying here beside her with Linda on my mind.
Yes I know that I once loved her
And I placed no one above her
And I never thought I’d ever set her free
But it just wasn’t in my plan
The way Linda squeezed my hand
The first time that I held her close as she danced with me.
She said I’ve loved you for a long time
But you’re married to a friend of mine
And I tried hard to never let it show
But my love for you is stronger
I can’t hide it any longer
And so I thought I’d better let you know.
Now I’m lying here with Linda on my mind
And next to me, my soon to be, the one I left behind
And Lord it’s killing me to see her crying
She knows I’m lying here beside her with Linda on my mind

Country Music

CAL SMITH SPENT YEARS PLAYING GUITAR BEHIND ERNEST TUBB WHILE OTHER MEN STOOD AT THE MICROPHONE. THEN, IN HIS LATE 30s, “THE LORD KNOWS I’M DRINKING” TOOK HIM TO NO. 1—AND “COUNTRY BUMPKIN” MADE HIM ONE OF 1974’S BIGGEST COUNTRY WINNERS. Cal Smith was already deep into country music before most listeners knew his name. Born Calvin Shofner in Oklahoma and raised in California, he worked clubs and radio before joining Ernest Tubb’s Texas Troubadours in the early 1960s. For years, Smith played guitar behind one of country music’s most established stars while trying to build a recording career of his own. The solo records came slowly. By 1972, Smith was in his late thirties and had only modest chart success. Then Bill Anderson gave him “The Lord Knows I’m Drinking,” a song about a man being judged for drinking by a churchgoing woman whose own behavior is hardly spotless. Released late that year, it became Smith’s first No. 1 country hit. The real peak came next. In December 1973, Smith recorded Don Wayne’s “Country Bumpkin” at Bradley’s Barn. The song follows a country boy through marriage, fatherhood and eventually the death of his wife, compressing an entire life into a few verses. Released in 1974, “Country Bumpkin” went to No. 1. It also won Single Record of the Year and Song of the Year at the Academy of Country Music Awards, while the composition earned Song of the Year honors from the Country Music Association as well. Smith followed with another No. 1, “It’s Time to Pay the Fiddler,” confirming that the breakthrough had not been a one-record accident. By then, the former sideman had spent well over a decade watching other singers take the spotlight. When his turn finally came, it arrived late—but large enough that one of country music’s biggest songs of 1974 carried his voice.

Country Music

CAPITOL DROPPED FREDDIE HART AFTER “CALIFORNIA GRAPEVINE” STALLED AT NO. 68. THEN AN ATLANTA DJ STARTED PLAYING AN ALBUM CUT CALLED “EASY LOVING”—AND HART HAD A NO. 1 HIT BEFORE THE LABEL COULD EVEN SIGN HIM BACK. By 1971, Freddie Hart had spent years close to country success without ever fully breaking through. He had recorded for several labels, written songs for other artists, and even supplied hits such as Carl Smith’s “Loose Talk” and Porter Wagoner’s “Skid Row Joe.” But his own records remained modest sellers. Then “California Grapevine” stalled at No. 68. Capitol dropped him. On the album, however, was a song Hart had written called “Easy Loving.” Atlanta DJ Jim Clemens at WPLO began playing it, and listener response was strong enough that other stations followed. Capitol suddenly had a problem. The song was taking off, but the singer was no longer under contract. The label rushed “Easy Loving” out as a single. By September 1971, it had reached No. 1 on Billboard’s country chart, staying there for three weeks, and it crossed to No. 17 on the Hot 100. Capitol quickly signed Hart again. The turnaround became much bigger than one rescued record. “Easy Loving” won CMA Song of the Year in both 1971 and 1972. Hart followed it with five more consecutive No. 1 country hits, including “My Hang-Up Is You,” and became one of the biggest country hitmakers of the early 1970s. A few months earlier, the record company had decided Freddie Hart’s commercial future was over. What changed that judgment was not another Nashville meeting or a new contract negotiation. It was one DJ in Atlanta turning over an album and deciding the song buried inside deserved to be heard.

Country Music

GARY STEWART’S ONLY NO. 1 HIT WAS ABOUT A MAN DRINKING THROUGH A COLLAPSING RELATIONSHIP. YEARS LATER, THE DARKNESS IN HIS RECORDS WOULD BEGIN TO LOOK FAR TOO MUCH LIKE HIS OWN LIFE. Gary Stewart did not sound like the smooth Nashville country dominating much of the 1970s. Born in Kentucky and raised in Florida, he developed a high, quivering voice that seemed permanently on the edge of breaking. Before his own breakthrough, Stewart and songwriting partner Bill Eldridge placed songs with artists including Stonewall Jackson and Cal Smith. RCA signed him as an artist in the early 1970s. The label initially struggled to find a clear direction, but Stewart’s fortunes changed when producer Roy Dea leaned into the harder honky-tonk sound that suited him best. In 1974, “Drinkin’ Thing” reached the Top 10. Then came “She’s Actin’ Single (I’m Drinkin’ Doubles).” Written by Wayne Carson, the song placed Stewart inside a failing relationship where the woman was behaving as though she were unattached and the man responded by drinking twice as hard. Stewart’s strained delivery made the lyric sound less like clever wordplay than a nervous breakdown happening in real time. In 1975, it went to No. 1. The album Out of Hand produced three major hits and later came to be regarded as one of the strongest hard-country albums of the decade. For a moment, Stewart had carved out a space between traditional honky-tonk and the emerging outlaw audience. But the instability in his records was not purely theatrical. As the decade progressed, Stewart struggled increasingly with alcohol and drugs. Personal losses compounded the problem, and by the 1980s his recording career had slowed sharply. He eventually returned to performing and recording, retaining a devoted audience that had never forgotten the rawness of those RCA records. Then, in December 2003, Stewart’s wife of more than four decades, Mary Lou, died of pneumonia. Less than a month later, Gary Stewart died by suicide at his Florida home. His reputation had never depended on polish. What listeners remembered was the feeling that every syllable might come apart before the band reached the next measure—and that, somehow, Stewart always held it together just long enough to finish the song.

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